by Reece Hirsch
“There were a few moments there when I wasn’t so sure myself,” he said.
“Were you hit?”
“No.”
Zoey looked over Chris’s shoulder and out the open front door. “Is he coming?”
“No.”
“Is he dead?”
A cold, wet gust of wind muscled through the doorway. “No, but I think he’s pretty badly injured.”
They locked down all the doors and windows, then sat down in front of the fire to regroup. The heat of the fireplace and the stress reaction from the shootout produced a powerful tiredness, and he wanted to close his eyes. Zoey seemed to also be collapsing after the adrenaline surge of waiting to see who walked through that door.
“We can’t stay here anymore, can we?” Zoey asked.
“No. Even if he’s already dead from the gunshot wounds, he could have passed along our location to the people who hired him before he came up here. And they knew the general area to begin with. Someone could be coming to finish the job already.”
Chris went to the window and stared out into the gathering darkness. The rain was coming down harder now.
“It’s getting dark,” Zoey said. “Do we leave now?”
“Let’s wait a couple of hours, give our man a chance to bleed to death or make it out of Stinson Beach. Then we drive back to the city.”
“You think that’s necessary?”
“If he’s still alive, he’s armed, and I don’t want him taking a last shot at us as we pass through town. There’s only one road out of here, so it would be easy to lie in wait.”
“I got a call,” Zoey said, her face tense and pale. “From Krissa. He was at the club asking for us.”
“Hmm,” said Chris. “Is that how he found us here?”
“No. Krissa says that she didn’t tell him, and I believe her. I told Krissa that she and her friends at the club needed to make themselves scarce for a while in case he came back.”
“We won’t be safe until we know that guy’s dead,” Chris said. He stopped there, not wanting to complete the thought.
“And even then we’re not safe, are we?”
Chris chose not to respond to that.
Zoey brought him a mug of black coffee, and he warmed his hands on it. They fell quiet for a while, taking in what had happened. He caught her studying him.
“I think there’s a part of you that actually likes all this,” she said.
“This?”
“You know. This. Hunting bad guys, the bad guys hunting us.”
“Are you kidding?”
“No. Don’t bother denying it. I can tell. There’s something wrong with you, isn’t there?”
“And there’s not something wrong with you?”
“I think we’ve already established that there is plenty wrong with me. But I’m just afraid you’re going to keep doing this sort of things until something really bad happens. Until it kills you.” After a pause, she added, “Or me.”
“I never meant to put you in harm’s way. And I think you know I don’t have the skill set to be an action hero.”
“So why do you do it?”
Chris stared into his coffee. “I could say it’s my job, but that wouldn’t be good enough for you, would it?”
Zoey shook her head.
“I guess I spent quite a few years after Tana died in a kind of hibernation. I showed up at the office and did my work, but it wasn’t much of a life. It’s like I can’t even remember anything that happened during those years.”
“You still miss her a lot, don’t you?”
“Sure I do. Always. But it’s not out of proportion anymore. It doesn’t crowd everything else out the way it used to.”
“So now doing stuff like this makes you feel more alive. Is that it? Because that’s kind of messed up.”
Chris shrugged. “I guess it makes me feel like I’m using all my parts.”
She moved to his side and sat next to him. “I get it. I do. But there have to be other things to get you through.”
“There are,” Chris said, glancing at her. “More so all the time.”
They gazed at the fireplace for a while as the fingers of flame clenched and unclenched around the logs. The rain began again outside, settling over the roof with a whoosh like a breaking wave.
Chris went to the front window and parted the curtains to look out at the sheets of rain coming down across the hillside.
“Any word from Damien Hull yet?”
“No, no response. It usually takes about two weeks to make contact with him. Like I said, he’s deep underground.”
“If I had to guess, I’d say that might be long enough for that hit man to try again. But hopefully not long enough for the PLA to send in a replacement.”
“What are you getting at?” Zoey asked.
“If we just have to survive for two weeks before we can disappear, then I don’t think I want to spend it waiting for that killer to regroup and take another shot at us. We got lucky this time, and he got a little sloppy. I’d much prefer to get on the move and go after him. Wouldn’t you?”
Zoey responded with a raised eyebrow. “Exactly how do you propose we do that? Call the police?”
“It’s worth a try,” Chris said. “But they weren’t very helpful before, and we don’t have much more to offer them as evidence now.” He shrugged. “I’ll make the call anyway.”
“Okay, but what were you thinking, then?”
“Think about it this way,” said Chris. “Where would a Chinese national be most likely to find shelter and assistance? And unlikely to draw attention to himself?”
“Chinatown,” Zoey said.
Chris nodded. “Chinatown.”
39
The streets of Chinatown were wet from the rain, and the sky was mottled with clouds as Chris and Zoey walked down Grant Avenue in midafternoon. The sun had come out, but Chinatown remained largely in the shadows of the old buildings that crowded the narrow streets.
“What are we looking for?” Zoey asked.
“I don’t know,” Chris said. “Chinatown’s not that big a place. If that hit man is hiding here, he’s probably somewhere within a five- to ten-block radius.”
Zoey studied the apartments above the shops. Drying laundry had reappeared on some of the iron fire escapes overhead. “Then he could be watching us right now.”
“True.”
“And he’s probably a good shot with a high-powered rifle.”
“Yes.”
“So maybe we should have worked a little bit more on our strategy before we got here.”
“Don’t worry. I think he’s too injured for that right now.”
“And if he isn’t?”
“Then he’ll probably take me out with the first shot, and you’ll have a chance to run.”
“Thank you. Very comforting.”
Chris and Zoey walked the length of Grant Avenue, which clung stubbornly to its perch on the slope of Nob Hill. They arrived at the intersection of Broadway and Columbus Avenue, which marked the boundary of the North Beach neighborhood, ersatz Italy abutting ersatz China in Epcot-like proximity. Then they turned back and wandered the side streets of Chinatown, where there were fewer shops selling antiques and tourist trinkets and more businesses actually dedicated to serving the local community.
The side street they’d chosen inclined upward at a steep angle, which slowed their pace to a crawl.
“I think we need a Sherpa,” Zoey said, gasping a bit from the climb. “Let’s take a break.”
As they stood on the sidewalk catching a breath, a Chinese man in his midthirties with long sideburns wearing a Drive-By Truckers T-shirt passed by them, moving quickly downhill with loping strides. About fifteen seconds later, Chris and Zoey looked at one another with the same realization.
/> “I know that guy,” Zoey said.
“I know him too.”
“Hey, Jefferson!” Zoey shouted.
Jefferson turned and extended his arms in greeting and surprise.
“You know Jefferson Fong?” Zoey asked as they waited for him to climb back up to them on the steep sidewalk.
“He’s sort of a hacker, isn’t he?” Chris asked Zoey. “Or at least he attends DefCon. He came up to me after a presentation I gave there, and we talked. He said he runs a comic-book shop.”
“I used to run into him on an IRC board where a lot of local hackers hang out. Nice guy. Never did any harm as far as I could tell. I think he’s more of an enthusiast.”
“That was my impression too. But we could use a friend who knows Chinatown.”
When Jefferson reached them, he smiled broadly. “Chris Bruen and Zoey Doucet. Together! Like Batman and Robin.” He had an incongruous, soft Southern inflection to his voice. Chris recalled that Jefferson had grown up in south Alabama.
“We prefer Green Hornet and Kato,” Zoey said. “He’s Kato.”
“What brings you to Chinatown?”
“We’d actually like to discuss that with you,” Chris said.
“That’s cool. Why don’t you walk with me to my shop? It’s just a block from here, and I need to open up.”
They caught up a bit as they walked down the hill, until they reached a tiny comic-book shop called Fifth Dynasty Comix. Jefferson pulled a key chain from his pocket and opened up the store. Instead of a bell jangling as they entered, they heard a recorded sound effect from a ’70s kung fu flick. Thwap. Whap. Whap. The crunch of bone. A cry of triumph that sounded something like Ayah wakow!
Jefferson took up his spot behind the cash register and rested his elbows on the glass case. “So how can I help you?”
Chris stood in front of the counter, but Zoey wandered the aisles of plastic-wrapped comics, occasionally running her fingers over them lightly and reverently, as if she could absorb their superpowers by osmosis.
“How long have you been here in Chinatown?”
“Going on eight years now.”
“We’re looking for someone who is probably hiding out in Chinatown somewhere. We thought you might be able to help.”
“Is this a hacker that you’re after?”
Chris shook his head. “No, it’s related to our work, but this person is not a hacker. He’s something different. More dangerous.”
“What do you have to go on?”
“He’s injured with a gunshot wound, and he probably sought medical attention here.”
“Wouldn’t he go to Chinese Hospital?”
“No, he couldn’t show up in the ER.”
“You have The Amazing Spider-Man Number 129!” Zoey said, bending down to bring her face close to a glass case. “The first appearance of the Punisher!”
Jefferson beamed. “Mah preciousss,” he said, channeling a Southern-fried Sméagol.
Chris tried to nod appreciatively before getting the conversation back on track. “If you were going to find someone hiding out in Chinatown, what would you do?”
Jefferson pulled his elbows off the counter. “Well, I hesitate to recommend this.”
Chris and Zoey stared at him, waiting for the rest.
“You know who knows everything that happens here in Chinatown? The tongs. There isn’t a pie they don’t have their fingers in.”
“Do you know them?”
“I know who I kick back to,” Jefferson said. “But I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to approach him. You don’t want these people to know your name.”
“Maybe we have a common interest in this case,” Chris said.
“They don’t have common interests with anybody. They don’t share information or anything else. They just take.”
“How do we meet them?” Zoey asked.
40
Chris, Zoey, and Jefferson climbed the steps of one of the more modern office buildings in Chinatown and stood before a door bearing a placard that read “Hang Seng Chinatown Benevolent Society.”
“You don’t have to do this,” Chris said for the third or fourth time.
“I know. It’s okay. Like I said, I’m just making an introduction.”
“They might not like it.”
“True, but we have a long-term relationship. They’ve been bleeding me for years. For once I might as well get some service in return.”
Chris could see the tension in Jefferson’s eyes, despite his blithe attitude.
Jefferson knocked on the door and said in Mandarin, “I’m here to see Mr. Lai. I’ve brought someone who would like to meet him.”
The door opened, and a man with a scar across his windpipe replied in staccato Mandarin, “Who said you could come here? And who are they?” The man’s cold eyes appraised Chris and Zoey.
“I think Mr. Lai will want to hear what they have to say.”
“I hope you know what you’re doing. Mr. Lai maintains an open-door policy to the community. But if you knock on his door, he just might knock on yours.”
“I realize that,” Jefferson said.
“He’s over at the Golden Door. There’s a fund-raiser tonight for the new community clinic.”
“Thank you.”
Jefferson led them two blocks down the street to the Golden Door Restaurant, which was on the second floor, with big windows overlooking the streaming traffic of Columbus Avenue. The restaurant was closed at this hour, but the front door was open, and they climbed a flight of steps to a massive dining room festooned with red-and-gold lanterns.
Workers were busy buffing the floors, setting tables, and hanging decorations for what must have been a very important community event. Amid the hive of activity, Chris detected an island of calm, and it surrounded a table in the rear corner where one man sat. Even before Jefferson led them to him, Chris knew that this was the tong boss.
Jefferson approached a young man in a cream-colored sweater and conferred with him for a moment. Another gatekeeper. The man shook his head a few times, but then he waved them on with an “it’s your funeral” shrug.
They were led over to a table at the rear of the dining room, where Mr. Lai sat behind platters of Chinese delicacies on a lazy Susan. The man looked to be in his early fifties, with the blandly pleasant demeanor of a businessman. He was talking on his cell phone while simultaneously dissecting a dumpling with a chopstick. In an impressive display of multitasking, he also managed to take in Chris’s trio as they approached.
When they were standing before him across the table, he said, “I think you’ve got what you need, don’t you? Call me when it’s done.”
The boss clicked off his phone, put down his chopsticks, and gazed at them curiously.
The young man in the cream sweater supplied the introduction, speaking in Mandarin. “Boss, this is Jefferson Fong, who runs Fifth Dynasty Comix on Ross Alley. We’ve known him for many years now. He seems to have a favor to ask.”
“Hello, Jefferson. I’m glad you know that you can come to me. That’s what you pay your dues for.” Then in English he said to the group, “Sorry, but I should have asked if there’s anyone here who doesn’t speak Mandarin.”
Zoey waved a hand.
“My apologies. Then we’ll stick to English,” he said without missing a beat in unaccented English. “I’m Henry Lai.” He waved a manicured hand at the platters of food before him. “This is one of my favorite parts of this job. I get to help select the menu for the annual health-clinic fund-raiser banquet. The privilege of being a benefactor.”
“Nice spread,” Chris said.
“And you are?”
Jefferson stepped forward. “This is Chris Bruen, an attorney here in San Francisco. And this is his colleague Zoey Doucet.”
“What firm are you with?”<
br />
“Reynolds, Fincher & McComb.”
“I know them. Good firm.” Lai lifted a platter before him that was filled with a horrifying array of chicken beaks and claws, all lightly battered and fried, with sauces on the side. “Would you like to sample? This is a very rare specialty in our culture. You won’t find this on the menu at P.F. Chang’s.”
Chris didn’t want to offend Lai before asking a favor, so he leaned in to examine the small plates, trying to determine whether one looked less stomach churning than the rest.
Before he could pick one, Lai withdrew the platter with a chuckle. “Just yanking your chain. Even I don’t eat this stuff. Everyone just likes to see it on the menu so that they can feel authentic. What can I do for you?”
Lai smiled a lot, Chris noticed, but the mirth never seemed to reach his eyes.
“We’re looking for someone, and we think he may be in Chinatown.”
“We get a lot of visitors here. Why should I care about this one?”
“Because he’s a hit man who’s been brought over from China to do a job here.”
“And who’s the target? Wait, I think I know the answer to that one.”
“I’m the target,” Chris said. He nodded to Zoey. “And probably her too.”
Lai didn’t reveal the slightest trace of alarm. Instead, he gave them another cold smile. “And what did you do to merit such attention?”
“Let’s just say that I deeply offended the Chinese government and the PLA, interfered with one of their operations.”
“What operation was it that you interfered with?”
“I’d rather not say.”
Lai was not used to being told no; it surely angered him, but he wasn’t going to show it.
“This is all very interesting, but what makes you think that I know anything about this man?”
“He’s been shot,” Zoey interjected. “And he probably sought medical attention somewhere in Chinatown. From someone who doesn’t take Blue Cross.”
“I don’t know everything that goes on here. But just for the sake of argument, let’s say that I do. Why would I tell you where he was?”